Scandal and Seduction
by LizzyCarlton
Summary: Sherlock/John teen fic with dashes of Jimlock and Mystrade. Their lives at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There may be smut later and rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock or Harry Potter. Obviously. **

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><p>John had noticed the tall, pale Slytherin boy long before he spoke to him. And, he was sure, long before said boy had noticed him. In fact, come to think of it, despite having once collided with John, whilst running at full pelt down the corridor, he wasn't sure that Sherlock Holmes had ever even noticed him at all.<p>

Until now.

The boy is glaring at him from the neighbouring hospital bed, where he is sitting, swinging his feet, and grumbling at Mrs Hudson, the matron. "Really, Mrs Hudson, the burns no longer require medical attention. Can you not see that?" His pale eyes remain fixed on John, who flushes slightly and looks nervously away.

"Hush now." Mrs Hudson fusses over him, "I'm monitoring your weight. You're really far too skinny Sherlock. If you'd just eat a little more now and again, dear, I wouldn't keep dragging you in here".

Sherlock huffs grumpily. "Eating's boring," he turns away to scowl childishly at the wall. John takes advantage of the sulking to start staring himself. Sherlock Holmes. The boy is tall, pale and _unbelievably gorgeous, _John thinks. Rich, dark curls encircle a face of high cheekbones and cold, silver eyes. His robes hang languidly against his narrow frame. Underneath, his shirt is somewhat rumpled, the top few buttons undone, revealing carved, marble collarbones. His green tie is, as usual, missing. It's John's sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and over the years he's heard plenty of strange rumours surrounding Sherlock Holmes. _'He's a freak,' _was the most common. _'He keeps dead things in the dormitory' _and_ 'he's sleeping with Professor Flynn_' were among the more crude.

John jumps slightly to see Sherlock has caught him staring. The boy raises one dark eyebrow nonchalantly and then lifts the corner of his mouth, in what, John realises, is probably the closest he had ever seen him come to a smile. He smiles back cautiously, before ducking his head in embarrassment.

Sherlock is something of a recluse. The one boy John has seen him looking comfortable with is another Slytherin, with a shark like smile and wild eyes. John doesn't know the boy, but doesn't particularly like the look of him. The only person John _really_ _knows_ who associates with Sherlock is Molly Hooper, a quiet, young Ravenclaw who trails after him longingly in the corridors, often carrying his books, his bag and occasionally, a large, portable cauldron.

And yet, despite Sherlock's reputation for being… strange, and the scornful remarks he earns from John's fellow Gryffindors, he can't help feeling drawn to him. _However strange he might be_, John thinks, _at_ _least he's interesting_. Something about him makes John's heart beat faster. Sherlock Holmes is dangerous. And he loves it.

"John Watson." Sherlock's deep, rich voice breaks through his thoughts. Mrs Hudson is bustling away, muttering worriedly.

John has rarely heard him speak. Occasionally, in class, a question from a professor would spark a highly strung rant of, well, genius, but mostly Sherlock keeps his mouth firmly shut. He tries to compose himself enough to respond, 'Yes. We have Potions together.'

"Yes, I know." Sherlock's response surprises John. Apparently he had been noticed. He feels his cheeks flush at the thought, "History of Magic too," Sherlock adds.

"We do? But… I've never seen you there…?"

"No. I don't go. It's boring," Sherlock explains absently.

John can't help but laugh, "yeah, I guess it is."

"You're the Gryffindor Beater. How's your shoulder?" Sherlock asks. John had taken a Bludger to his left side in their latest match. The pain had been excruciating, but they'd won.

"Um, yep, good," John mutters, shifting restlessly beneath the white hospital bed sheet, hating feeling weak, "I didn't think you came to Quidditch matches."

Sherlock chuckles, "I don't." He reclines languidly on the neighbouring bed, hands steepled beneath his chin.

"Boring?"

"Exactly. I usually find more _exciting _ways to pass the time," Sherlock responds, glancing carelessly over, his cold eyes twinkling. John feels like he's missing an inside joke.

"So, how did you know about my shoulder?" John asks.

"It's obvious." Sherlock turns on to his side, propping himself up on one elbow, and surveying him critically. "You winced when you rolled on to it to face me just now. It's a new injury; you're not used to it. And it's clear you're a sportsman, you have the toned physique," John feels himself blushing, but Sherlock continues, "you can't be a Keeper, you're too short and you seem too headstrong to be a Chaser, you could be a Seeker, but I'd say Beater… you have the nerve for the position… and the strong arms." Sherlock concludes, his eyes raking over John's body, who begins to feel uncomfortable in his striped pyjamas and the thin hospital bed sheet.

"Brilliant," John mutters in vague astonishment, "that was… brilliant."

Sherlock looks surprised. His guarded expression drops for a short second, and John think he catches a glimpse of warmth beneath "That's not what people normally say," he replies.

"What do they normally say?"

'Piss off,' Sherlock grins.

Mrs Hudson suddenly reappears, "Sherlock, dearie, I want you back here next Friday morning. No excuses, and please don't forget."

John feels a stab of regret as Sherlock gathers himself up from the bed, and wonders if he'll ever manage to secure his attention again. On his feet, Sherlock exudes the grace of a large black cat. He smiles at Mrs Hudson, "…if you insist," and sweeps elegantly out of the room.

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><p><em>Hello, reader! This is my first fanfic so please be forgiving, although constructive criticism is welcome.<em>

_This_ will be _slash fiction. Currently rated T, but there's a chance of smut later on, so rating may change, for safety. If that happens I'll post warnings prior to publication. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Big thank you to everyone who read, reviewed or subscribed to this. Here's Chapter 2..._

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><p>It's well past midnight, and the dungeon corridor down which Sherlock marches is deserted and cast in shadows. It's been an extraordinarily <em>boring <em>day, Sherlock reflects, his quick steps echoing on the cold stone floor. No sign of Jim, for one thing. Sherlock frowns to himself distractedly, _that is worrying_, it's usually when Jim isn't anywhere to be seen that he is causing the most trouble. The worse the trouble, the further he _appears _to be from it.

Strangely enough, the high point of his day had probably been speaking to John Watson. Sherlock is loath to admit it, but he finds the Gryffindor boy, strangely… quite interesting. His readiness to smile and laugh with Sherlock sets him aside from the others; it was refreshing. _Good looking too_, Sherlock thinks, allowing his mind to wander… those strong, tanned arms, so different to Jim's wiry limbs. He wonders what it would be like to be wrapped in them… _probably not too bad… _

Rounding the corner he is pulled abruptly back to reality, as he charges at full speed into Hufflepuff prefect, Greg Lestrade, on his patrol of the empty dungeons.

"Lestrade! How simply wonderful to see you," Sherlock smirks sarkily, as Lestrade picks himself up off the floor, a look of mild annoyance on his usually calm face.

"I'm sure. Now get the hell to bed."

Sherlock chuckles, "Flattered though I am by your interest, Lestrade, I must inform you that I consider myself married to my work and ca-"

"Hilarious." Greg sighs in exasperation. "Detention for a week if you don't make it back to the Slytherin dormitory within the next… let's see… three minutes"

Sherlock smiles slowly, standing his ground, "Does your girlfriend know you're making a habit of meeting my brother in broom cupboards, Lestrade?"

The older boy freezes, a tortured look passing over his face. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Fine. Do what you want. Quite frankly, I don't have the energy to stop you."

"No. You'd need rather a lot." Sherlock bounces forwards victoriously, "Can't stay. Experiments to finish."

Reaching the potions classroom Sherlock breathes a happy sigh, indulging in a rare smile. The jars of pickled animals lining the walls, the well stocked store cupboard, the endless possibilities for absorbing experiments… it's somewhere he can spend time without being bored out of his mind.

As far as Sherlock is concerned, school is an extortionate waste of his time. Everything he needs to know, he already does. And has done since the age of six. In order to relieve the boredom, and save his brain from rotting in his skull, it seemed only reasonable that he make midnight trips to the restricted section, the potions classrooms and his professors' private store cupboards. The habit had formed in his first week at Hogwarts, and, much to Mycroft's displeasure, had continued for the past six years.

It is early morning by the time Sherlock has finished. The room now filled with curling tendrils of golden smoke. Leaving his equipment scattered over the desk he turns to leave his preferred Potions classroom.

_Damn. _He stops in his tracks, silver eyes narrowed, repressing a groan. A tall, slim figure is leaning casually against the doorframe, legs crossed and eyes bright, a head boy badge pinned to his robes.

"Not now, Mycroft. I'm busy."

Mycroft Holmes was, possibly aside from Jim, the only person Sherlock knew who could sneak up on him without being noticed. It had recently become something of a habit, one which made him exceptionally irritating.

Mycroft sweeps into the room with a regal air, "So I've heard, dear brother. I've just spoken with the _charmant _Lestrade. Do I really have to remind you to play nice, Sherlock? Blackmail is… unattractive."

Sherlock snorts, "Right. I'll follow your cue and stick to manipulative bribery from now on."

Mycroft's smile disappears. "I rarely find it necessary to resort to bribery, Sherlock." His tone grows frosty. "And, by the by, you would be better placed to make comments on other people's relationships if you weren't entangled in certain… _unsavoury, _ones of your own. Do bear that in mind."

Sherlock hisses, cat like, as Mycroft turns abruptly on his heels, leaving him alone in the room.

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><p>It's another two days before John is finally released from the hospital wing, under strict instructions from Mrs Hudson to avoid strenuous exercise for a week. John loves the thrill of Quidditch, but he can't pretend he's not glad for an excuse to miss a couple of practices. He and Sarah- the team's captain and a Chaser- had recently gone through an amicable, yet awkward break-up and the team dynamic was suffering.<p>

Sitting at the Gryffindor breakfast table, amid a crowd of friends, John reflects on his earlier conversation with Sherlock. He was surprised by the other boy's sharp humour, his quick smile. Unfortunately, the warmth he had glimpsed behind that cold, harsh façade only seemed to draw him closer to the Slytherin. What had once been a gentle curiosity was threatening to become something of an obsession. John glances over at the Slytherin table, raking his eyes up and down. No sign of Sherlock. Or his strange friend with the wild, black eyes. He remembers Mrs Hudson's complaints over Sherlock's refusal to eat. "Boring!" a deep voice rings out in his mind, and he chuckles quietly into his cereal.

"John? Gonna share the joke?" Sally's voice pulls John back to reality. He looks up to find his group of friends have gone quiet, eyeing him with amusement.

He blushes, embarrassed, but is saved from answering by an exclamation of annoyance from Michael Anderson, a few seats away.

"Eurgh, would you look at that. You'd think the freaks could at least keep their hands off each other in public. People are trying to eat in here."

John's heart rate increases as he twists in his seat to follow the group's joint gaze. Sherlock Holmes and his black eyed friend are walking, stumbling, together through the large double doors. The shorter boy (James? Jim?) has his arms wrapped loosely around Sherlock's waist, clinging on to him from behind, his mouth working furiously in the taller boy's ear. Sherlock is, amazingly, laughing. He looks dishevelled, John thinks, and, well, rather delicious. The black eyed boy looks up suddenly, meeting his gaze. John feels an unpleasant pang, close to his heart.

"Who is that?" John asks. "The boy with Sherlock?" The two have made their way to the Slytherin table, where they sit slightly apart from their fellow students.

"Jim Moriarty," Sally replies, sniffing with distaste, "they're shagging, apparently."

_Ouch, definite pang. _John blinks in surprise. _Don't be ridiculous, _he tells himself silently, _you barely even know Sherlock. Why do you care who he is or isn't fucking?_

"Apparently?" snorts Anderson, his mouth full of food, "Dimmock walked in on them with their tongues down each other's throats in an empty classroom yesterday. They had their shirts unbuttoned. I'd say that's proof enough. _Freaks._"

John pushes away his plate, standing suddenly. He's never been fond of Anderson, but right now he is resisting the urge to throw a punch. _Probably time to leave. _

"John?" Sarah calls to him, looking concerned, as he sets off, away from the table

"He's not a freak." John calls back, louder than he intended. Along the Gryffindor table, a few heads turn. "Sherlock, I mean. He's not."

Anderson's eyebrows practically disappear. He snorts again, and John throws him a parting look of disgust, before leaving the hall.

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><p><em>Excuse the extensive author's notes, but just to explain a few things…<em>

_The __choice of houses (!): I used to think Sherlock would be in Ravenclaw, but… (a) He's only interested in learning when it directly benefits him (or his work), (b) I like the tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin and, (c) He can be a bit of a bitch_

_John and Sherlock are both in their sixth year. Mycroft is in his last. I am ignoring the age gap between them. _

_I'll update again soon. _


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had always enjoyed potions lessons. Of course the actual teaching was as slow and tedious as in any other class, but the subject matter was at least interesting and the opportunities for experimentation kept his mind awake. It generally took him half as long as his classmates to complete the set work, and if Professor Flynn was in a good mood, he would often be allowed to continue with his own work for the remainder of the lessons.

This afternoon, his Draught of Living Death bubbles happily in the shining pewter cauldron. It's perfect. Obviously. But, now, Sherlock is torn. In his bag is a fascinating copy of _The Art of Animagus Transformation._ At the other end of the room, amongst his fellow Gryffindors, John Watson is looking bemused. He pokes his wand haplessly into the potion brewing in front of him, which is now emitting a frankly alarming amount of green smoke. His cheeks are flushed pink and one hand runs worriedly through his short blond hair. On his lightly tanned forehead a thin veil of sweat is forming, a pink tongue runs nervously over his soft bottom lip. Sherlock sighs, and rises to his feet. He can't, he reasons, sit back and watch such an astonishing display of ignorance without feeling compelled to step in.

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><p>John groans silently at the festering green liquid simmering quietly in his cauldron. His copy of <em>Advanced Potion Making<em> lies open against the dark wooden desk. The vast amounts of ingredients on his work bench have intermingled into a confused mess. He is having difficulty distinguishing between the asphodel and the valerian roots.

Potions had always been John's weak subject. Today's class, however, seems to be going particularly badly, a fact which, John reflects, could probably be at least partially blamed on a certain dark haired Slytherin boy, whose adept movements and casual speed had kept him distracted for the majority of the lesson.

He glances up, hoping for another glimpse of Sherlock's pale face glimmering in the green dungeon light, but there's a gap on the Slytherin work bench. Sherlock's cauldron is emitting the colourless steam noted as ideal within the book. The boy himself is missing.

John turns back to the mass of ingredients in front of him, mood slumping. _This is impossible_. He sighs quietly, taking up his silver knife and returning to work, once more attacking the Sopophorous Bean, which had been proving so difficult to cut up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

A cool, rich voice in John's ear causes him to jump suddenly, his knife slips, sending the bean flying into the air, where it's caught swiftly by a large, pale hand. He gulps. Sherlock is standing close behind him, practically breathing down his neck. The aristocratic nose slightly wrinkled as he observes the pungent green potion, one eyebrow raised. John feels the blood rush to his cheeks as his heart rate increases.

Sherlock chuckles, setting the bean back down on the workbench. "Try crushing it. It releases the juices better."

John gapes open mouthed, and failing to come up with a suitable response, turns the knife on its side. Sherlock smirks smugly as the carefully crushed bean finally releases its juice.

"Thanks," John mutters in embarassment.

"Not at all. I couldn't bear to stand by and watch you murder such a simple procedure"

"Hey," John snaps, annoyed now, "it's a bloody difficult potion. We can't all be brilliant."

"Oh believe me, it isn't… and do you really think that?"

"Think what?" John adds the juice to his potion which, much to his relief, final stops emitting green smoke.

"That I'm brilliant?"

"Yes…" John replies instantly. _Oops. _"…I mean no! Well, I mean, you are at Potions," he stammers "That's what… I meant."

Sherlock nods sagely. "Yes. I am quite. Although it really isn't as difficult as you're making it look."

John can't help but laugh at Sherlock's arrogance. "Right. Cheers for that."

At the other end of the work bench Sally Donovan looks up at the sound, her curious smile disappearing, to be replaced by a look of disdain at the sight of Sherlock looming over John's shoulder. She raises one eyebrow quizically. John ignores her.

"Not at all," Sherlock murmurs, his mouth really rather close to John's ear now. "You know… I could help... if you like?"

John shivers at the casual intimacy. He hates to admit weakness, but the prospect of spending the rest of the lesson talking to the Sherlock Holmes, is too attractive to dismiss. He nods shortly. "Yeah… thanks."

The potion is, Sherlock notes, "practically past the point of saving." But by the end on the lesson the contents of John's cauldron has, remarkably, transformed; the dark green sludge having given way to a smooth, almost translucent pink liquid. Professor Flynn nods appreciatively at the sight, "Well done... _John". _He says the name with a raised eyebrow, taking in the sight of Sherlock standing nonchalantly a few feet away, apparently absorbed in a book.

The clock hits twelve and the class is dismissed. John hesitates in packing his school bag as his classmates rush from the steamy dungeon room. Sherlock is cramming his book back into his own satchel, he glances up and their eyes meet.

"Thanks," John says again, "really. That was amazing"

"Not at all." Sherlock brushes off the compliment, but John thinks he recognises a familiar warmth behind the icy veil of those piercing silver eyes. The full mouth twitches upwards at the corners. He hands back John's potions textbook, and there is a rush of electricity as their fingers meet.

"You're something else," John mutters, unable to tear his eyes from the strange, unearthly beauty of the face above his own.

The flickering of the torchlight, lights up the responding wide, full-lipped smile. "As are you, John Watson."

Sherlock moves nearer, lips slightly parted. John notes flecks of green in his eyes. They're so close. A tingling sensation spreads through his body, leaving him paralysed.

Too close…

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><p><em><em>I'm beginning to get an idea of where I could take the plot now. Any suggestions for improvements or happenings you'd like to see in the future? <em>_


	4. Chapter 4

"Alright, freak." Sally voice cuts through the warm dungeon air. She and Anderson have approached unnoticed, hands intertwined, matching sneers on their faces.

Sherlock recoils at the words, face returning to its icy mask.

John barely has chance to open his mouth before the boy has turned on his heels and swept from the classroom, turning his shirt collar up as he leaves, hiding a pink flush spreading across the back of his neck. John turns on Sally and Anderson, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"That was completely unnecessary," he scowls.

"Woah, sorry mate," Anderson is laughing at Sherlock's dramatic exit. "We thought he was probably creeping you out talking about corpses, or something."

"Well he wasn't." John sighs, turning to finish packing his bag. He tries not to think about the soft, wide lips which not so long ago had been so close to his own.

"Right. I should have realised." Anderson is grinning, trying to pick a fight. "You did look pretty cosy." He raises an eyebrow, and John longs to wipe that self satisfied smirk from his face.

"You're not his friend." Sally's watching him with a strange expression. "He doesn't have friends. So what are you doing with him?"

John's heart thumps with anger at the hidden meaning in her words. "I don't know what you mean," he feigns ignorance, determined not to respond to their jibes. "I'm not doing anything with him. I've barely even spoken to him."

He leaves Anderson and Sally laughing together in the potions classroom, looking quickly left and right as he exits the room. No sign of Sherlock. He grumbles to himself in annoyance. If the boy had hung around long enough to hear the remainder of the conversation he would have realised what utter prats John considered his two fellow Gryffindors to be.

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><p>The week passes slowly, and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. The Slytherin boy is elusive, and apparently has a habit of skipping classes. As the weekend creeps closer John manages to stop scanning the hallways for a glimpse of his face. It's October and Halloween decorations are beginning to crop up around the castle. The sudden appearances of carved pumpkins and enchanted skeletons, combined with an approaching Hogsmeade visit and the upcoming Halloween ball, are keeping spirits high. John's finally beginning to settle back into life at Hogwarts. Soon being back on the Quidditch pitch helps, and, lacklustre potion making aside, his grades are creeping higher.<p>

Friday morning dawns bright and cold, and John awakes early, as usual. Weak rays of pale gold sun seep in through the dormitory window, soaking the beds, and the sleeping boys in a soft grey light. John grumbles to himself softly. It's early, too early to go down for breakfast. All he really wants to do is fall back into peaceful sleep, but, rubbing at the dull ache in his shoulder, he can tell that isn't going to let that happen. From the other side of the dormitory Anderson emits a loud snore. John groans in annoyance, pushes back the soft sheets and gets dressed. He needs to get out of the castle.

Once outside John's mood noticeably lifts, the cold air rousing him from his sleepy stupor. The grounds look beautiful in the autumn light, frost crackles underfoot, and cobwebs glisten with dew about the castle walls. He stamps through wet grass, broomstick on hand, intending on a fly over the lake before breakfast.

Rounding the corner of the greenhouses John suddenly collides with a whirlwind of black robes and white skin. Slightly winded he looks up to see a grumpy looking Sherlock Holmes glowering at him, hands suspiciously behind his back.

"Ouch" John grumbles. "Do you make a habit of that?"

Sherlock peers at him apathetically, obviously distracted, "What? Of what!" He shifts uncomfortably, turning with John as he moves… hiding something. "What do you want?"

John scowls. He's getting tired of Sherlock's arrogance, no matter how pretty his face. "Walking into people!" he growls, trying to peer around the taller boy, wandering what he's hiding.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "I assure you John, it was entirely unintentional" He smirks on _unintentional_, focused on the shorter boy now, eyes sparkling.

"Why are you covered in scratches? Where have you been?" John inquires. Sherlock grin and withdraws his hands from behind his back. "Oh _God_, what the hell is _that?_" John stumbles backwards, attention now horribly drawn to a strange, squirming mass in the jar Sherlock's cradling.

"I'm not. Forbidden forest. And… Flobberworms," Sherlock beams delightedly, waving the jar in John's face, who takes another hurried step backwards.

"What the f- what the hell, are you doing with those?" he has the feeling Sherlock had only been hiding them for effect.

Sherlock is peering into the jar happily. "Experiment."

"Right. You do a lot of experiments?"

"Oh yes. I like to experiment." Sherlock takes a step forwards, eyes fixed on John's. John feels his breathing hitch, and finds himself leaning closer...

"Really? Anything good?"

"Occasionally. I need these for a potion." Sherlock's attention flickers back to the jar.

"Right." John nods, slightly miffed that _flobberworms _can capture the other boy's attention with more flair than he can. "I'll leave you to get on with it. He throws his broomstick back over his shoulder. Sherlock watches the movement, eyes narrowed, taking in the movement of muscles beneath John's jumper, the way his hair catches golden in the light.

He's moving away now, and Sherlock's lips twist into a gentle pout. He runs a hand through his hair… "I'll need an assistant"

John stops. He looks back in confusion. _Was that a request? _"You will?"

Sherlock nods, tilting his head questioningly. "Busy at midnight?"

John laughs, trying to ignore his increasing heart rate. "Yeah. Busy sleeping."

Sherlock crinkles his nose in disgust, "_Sleeping?_ How tedious."

"I suppose it is."

"Good. I'll meet you at the dungeon entrance at twelve sharp. See you then." He winks and turns on his heel before striding away.

"Arrogant sod." John grumbles.

"By the way," Sherlock shouts back from across the lawn, "…could be dangerous."

John stands his ground, admiring the retreating figure. _Mm, _he thinks, _It really could._

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><p><em>Bit of a short one I'm afraid. Next chapter is all but finished so I'll post it over the next couple of days.<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you reviewers. :)_

_**Warning:** This gets slashy at the end. Not explicit. Don't like, don't read. _

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><p>Midnight. John shifts anxiously from foot to foot. The entrance to the dungeons is dark and drafty, and as yet there is no sign of Sherlock.<p>

The day had dragged by at snail's pace. John had barely been able to focus on lessons, and had narrowly avoided another hit from a Bludger during Quidditch practise… he'd been too busy wondering what he'd got himself in for. Wandering around the school at night would mean a week's detention if they were caught… he couldn't bring himself to think about what would happen if they were discovered making secret (and he suspected dangerous) potions, with ingredients found in the Forbidden Forest.

He groans and buries his head in his hands. He doesn't even _like _potion making. This is insane.

And yet, by the time dinner rolls around John's nerves have been replaced with a calm excitement. Having been born into a wizarding family, like Sherlock, he too is often bored at Hogwarts. The restrictions of the rules annoyed him, as, frequently, did his classmates. The house system was another irritant, some of the most interesting people in his year were in Slytherin, but for the sake of 'loyalty' he was expected not to speak to them.

A hand on his shoulder. John jumps about a foot in the air and turns to see Sherlock looming over him in the semi-darkness, face glowing eerily in the pale torchlight.

"Jesus, Holmes. Bit of warning would have been nice." He hisses, carefully avoiding meeting the silver eyes scanning his face.

Sherlock smiles. "Apologies John," He says in a loud, distinctly unapologetic voice, "try not to panic. Let's get going."

"Hello to you too," John mutters, exasperated to find he has to break into a trot in order to match the taller boy's long strides.

Their footsteps echo loudly in the empty stone passages, the two boys are silent as Sherlock leads the way down flight after flight of stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs a loud, pointed cough brings the Sherlock to a sharp halt. John stumbles into him, before drawing back in embarrassment, peering over Sherlock's shoulder to assess just how much trouble he's now in.

"Lestrade," Sherlock nods impatiently at the figure stood, arms crossed, before them. "Good evening. No time to chat. We're terribly busy…" his mouth quirks into a smile, as he steps round the older boy, "…don't wait up."

Greg scowls, "You know, Sherlock, when I said 'do what you want', I wasn't giving you a free pass to stroll around the dungeons every damn night. Do you ever sleep? And who is this?"

"Oh please, you clearly were. Sleep? I try my best not to. And _this_ is John Watson." Sherlock responds rapidly, grabbing John by the arm and pulling him forwards... "He's with me."

John blushes violently, and makes a weak attempt to shake the strong, pale hand off. The shock of the touch sends shivers down his spine, and through the thin cotton of his jumper he can feel the surprising warmth of Sherlock's grip.

Greg raises his eyebrows, "Yes. I can see that." He turns away, huffing slightly. "Fine, fine. Go on then, just please keep this quiet". John stares in astonishment, looking between the two in confusion. He wonders exactly what Sherlock's done to ensure he gets his way so easily.

Sherlock beams at Greg's words, and bounds off down the corridor.

John, still slightly shaken, smiles anxiously at the Hufflepuff prefect, whose watching him with narrowed eyes. "Good evening" he manages, before slipping away after Sherlock.

* * *

><p>"Why don't you get Molly Hooper to help you with all this?"<p>

Having reached an empty potions classroom, John is watching transfixed, and feeling more than a little unnecessary, as a lively Sherlock Holmes throws piles of ingredients into a bubbling pewter cauldron. The wooden door to the private storecupboard is wide open, and smoke from the stewing potion is filling the room with a strange smell, like melting plastic. The jar of flobberworms is now open on the workbench and John's taken a seat as far away from the squirming mass as possible.

"What? Who?" Sherlock, absorbed in his work, is clearly barely listening. John refuses to admire the way his pale hands skilfully chop the roots lying on the work bench by the cauldron.

"MOLLY! God, Sherlock. The girl you spend all your time with."

Sherlock looks up abruptly, the corners of his mouth twitching coldly, "On the contrary John. _She _spends all _her _time with me." He adds the roots, grinning briefly at the array of golden sparks the reaction causes.

"Oh. Right. Charming." John wonders if there is anyone Sherlock actually cares for. Mycroft? Seems unlikely. Jim? John shudders, hoping not.

A flicker of confusion passes over Sherlock's face. "Not good?"

John sighs in resignation. "Well, don't you think you should tell her that you're not interested?"

The look of confusion grows. "In what?"

John suddenly begins to feel embarrassed. Sherlock has a way of making every day emotions seem… unnecessary. "In, well, you know, being with her."

Sherlock snorts, returning to the diminishing pile of ingredients next to his cauldron. His pale hands working with steady precision. "You mean _sleeping _with her?"

_Ugh. _John flushes red. _Why am I having this conversation._ "No! Well, I mean, it's none of my business whether or not you- Oh! … you mean… you do? …want to… ?"

"Shut up."

John stops babbling.

"I don't" Sherlock clarifies absently. "Girls aren't really my area."

_Oh! _John nods. _So Anderson was right, about Jim? "_I see." He can't bring himself to ask.

"Unlike you." Sherlock has turned his back now and John takes the opportunity to admire the way his uniform stretches across his - _wait… what!_

"What's that supposed to mean!"

Sherlock turns back around, treating John to a smug Cheshire cat smile. "Not a difficult deduction John. It's only October, and you've been with two, mm, no, three, different girls already this term."

"Ah. Right. For future reference, I prefer it when you make deductions about _other people's _lives,_" _John groans, trying to hide his growing embarrassment.

Sherlock smirks, tipping the last of the flobberworms into the cauldron with a flourish, bright eyes twinkling in the cold dungeon light. "But John…" he steps around the work bench, moving closer.

John freezes. The warm, orange light of the cauldron fire gives Sherlock an ethereal glow.

The deep voice has lowered to a slow purr, "…you're just _so_ much more interesting."

Sherlock pauses in front of him, his breath fluttering softly against John's skin, surprisingly warm in the cold dungeon room. John notices the sculptural quality of his marble cheekbones, the flecks of green warmth in his icy grey eyes, the slight flick of his tongue against pale, full lips.

A loud, sudden bang, tears them suddenly apart. John finds himself thrown to the ground, by the force of an explosion so strong, it echoes against the bare dungeon walls. Sherlock, and then everything, is lost in a growing cloud of purple smoke.

"YES! Ooh yes! I was right!" he hears Sherlock gasping excitedly. "John! I was right! My calculations were right."

"Well bloody done" John groans, scrambling to his feet. The classroom floor is sticky, covered in a surprising amount of indigo gloop. "I don't suppose these _calculations_ took into account exactly what we're going to do next?"

He feels a hand grasp his jumper, and together the two boys stumble forwards towards the classroom door, coughing amid the haze.

"Of course," Sherlock pants. "…We run".

* * *

><p>By the time Sherlock reaches the Slytherin common room he's flushed, out of breath, and thoroughly satisfied. It had, all in all, been a rather successful evening.<p>

"_Serpent bite" _he gasps, and the empty grey wall in front of him reveals a hidden door, which swings slowly open.

Inside, the common room seems empty; a sea of abandoned armchairs casting long shadows which stretch eerily up the dark stone walls. Only the hissing of embers, in the cold iron grate of the fireplace, breaks the silence.

Sherlock flops into the nearest chair, trying to recover his breath. Eyes closed, he chuckles to himself softly. John Watson's face blooms in his mind, sandy eyelashes, gentle tan… _And God, it should not be legal to look that gorgeous in an old woollen jumper and a tattered pair of slip-_

"Honeyyy. You're hooome." A cold, high pitched voice calls out from a darkened corner. "You knowww, I did wait up…"

Sherlock jumps slightly, eyes flickering open, but remains stationary on the chair. "Jim."

A gentle giggle, as a pale figure emerges from the shadows. "Well deduced, my darling. How was work?"

Sherlock swallows as the figure draws closer, and drops to its knees, the bright white face so close to his own. The cold black eyes staring, drinking him in. Sherlock leans back, closes his own, "Illuminating."

"Look at me!" The softness of the voice is lost. Two thin hands suddenly rest on his knees, run up his thighs, prise them apart. He feels his breath hitch, and does as he's told.

Jim smirks, "That's better. You know I do like your _full _attention." Pale fingers grasp at his belt buckle. "I'm not happy, Sherly, dear. You're all out of breath. Makes me wonder where you've been… Who you've been there with."

Sherlock moans as the nimble fingers undo his belt buckle; pull down his trouser zip. "I can assure you, Jimmy", he gasps, struggling to keep his composure, "that I haven't b-"

"Ummm, sweetheart." Jim whines slowly, "I've rather lost interest in anything you may have to say." He lowers his face, eyes wild, "_Now…_ Get your breath back… I'm, um, going to make you lose it again."

* * *

><p><em>Yeah, Sherliarty. Hope I'm not the only one who likes this pairing?<em>

_Thanks for reading. I love my next chapter, will post it soon. _


	6. Chapter 6

_I make no apologies for this chapter, Mystrade is my OTP._

_**Warning: Slash (but no sex)**_

* * *

><p>Mycroft hums softly as he walks, surveying the darkening corridors. It's Saturday evening and the sun is setting over the castle grounds; the cold grey walls are for once alight with a soft pink glow. Not far ahead of him a group of young Gryffindors scuttle hurriedly out of his way. He chuckles to himself as he passes… <em>so much for bravery<em>.

Rounding the corner, he's deep in thought- Sherlock had, as usual, been causing him a nuisance. According to the young Molly Hooper, his little brother had attended barely half of his classes that week. Mycroft pauses thoughtfully by an arched window, looking out at the courtyard beyond, debating the best way to remove _Jim Moriarty _from his brother's life. As much as he hates to admit it, the Slytherin fifth year makes him uneasy. He shakes himself, as the image of the leering boy draped over Sherlock invades his mind._ It simply wouldn't do. _

"Anthea," he turns to the dark haired Ravenclaw girl at his side.

She looks up, questioningly, flicking her eyes away from the notebook she's hastily scribbling in. "Yes, Sir?"

Mycroft smiles indulgently. He hadn't objected when the younger girl began following him around. She's clever, at least by normal people standards. She also knows how to get what she wants. A useful ally, he thinks…besides… she calls him _Sir._

"I want surveillance on _Jim Moriarty_." He wrinkles his nose at the name, turning back to lean out over the window ledge. "And do me another background check."

Anthea nods cautiously, "Surveillance, easy." She pauses, "But last time he didn't appear to even have a background."

Mycroft smiles condescendingly "Try again… Be sneaky."

Anthea raises a doubtful eyebrow, looking unimpressed, before wandering off down the corridor, nose back in her notebook.

The sun has set now, and only faint tendrils of light reach into the greying sky over the deserted courtyard. A black owl sweeps past overhead. At the far corner a door swings open. _Ah, _Mycroft smiles, leaning further over the ledge, _Gregory. _He coughs loudly and the dark haired boy looks up, freezing in place. _Like a rabbit in the headlights, _Mycroft thinks delightedly. He pulls back from the window, descending the stone staircase regally; his soft footsteps echoing around the four stone walls. He comes to a halt a few feet away from the Hufflepuff prefect, who is now looking nervously back over his shoulder. Mycroft twirls his umbrella, doing his best to suppress a faint fluttering in his stomach.

"Mycroft," Greg nods anxiously, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Gregory." Mycroft beams, "good to see you again." He runs his eyes up and down the toned figure before him, admiring the stretch of robes over broad shoulders, the folds of fabric around the slim waist.

He takes a step closer and then nonchalantly waves his umbrella towards a small, hidden alcove in the courtyard wall, before striding in its direction.

Greg hovers for a moment, conflicted, shifting worriedly from one foot to another.

"_Damn," _he mutters, and with a quick scan of the still empty courtyard, follows Mycroft's receding figure.

* * *

><p>Greg moans hopelessly into Mycroft's mouth, as the older boy's tongue twists carefully with his own. Pressed into the cobwebby corner, he clings frantically to Mycroft's tall, supple frame, his hands laced in auburn hair. Cool hands slip under his shirt. He moans again.<p>

A soft chuckle. Mycroft pulls back slightly, face half obscured by shadows, in the dark of the alcove.

"Saw… Sherlock again… last night." Greg pants, more than a little short of breath.

Mycroft frowns, pulling his hands back out from under the Hufflepuff's shirt. "_Do _let's refrain from discussing my brother, Gregory."

Greg grabs Mycroft's hands swiftly, returning them to his waist. "Come back," he grumbles, turning the two around so the other boy is now the one pinned against the wall. "Just thought you'd be interested," he murmurs into a smooth, white ear. He nibbles gently at the lobe. "He wasn't alone."

Mycroft remains tense against him. "He wasn't?" he responds reluctantly, interest sparked.

"Nope." Greg says cheerfully, brushing kisses down the taller boy's jaw line, before sucking gently on his throat.

Mycroft gasps slightly, relaxing into Greg's hold, "Well, are you going to tell me who he was with?"

Greg grins. He loves watching the Head Boy's composure fall apart. "Dunno." He rocks his hips slightly, seeking pressure, "What are you gonna do for me?"

"Good grief, Gregory." Mycroft replies, attempting cool indifference, "Don't be so c-crude." His voice catches on the last word, giving him away.

Greg laughs against his neck, running wide, soft hands over Mycroft's chest. The silky material of the obviously expensive shirt is cool against his skin. He tugs at the blue and silver tie, and stretches up to place a kiss on the tip of Mycroft's nose.

"Fine." He steps back, leaving the Ravenclaw boy slumped breathlessly against the alcove wall. "I'll see you later, then." Straightening his own shirt and tie, he turns to leave with a parting wink.

As expected, two firm hands pull him back. "Oh, I don't think so." The voice is smooth and dangerous in his ear. Shivering slightly, he allows himself to be drawn back into the cramped space.

"I _really_ don't think so." Mycroft traps him against the opposite wall, soft lips drawn up into a smile. He runs a hand up the inside of Greg's thigh. "Now... tell me what you know."

* * *

><p>John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. As head boy, Mycroft Holmes has a reputation for being… well, over-dramatic. But, finding himself sitting across from him in an empty boat, in the empty boathouse really is, quite frankly, more than a little bit <em>weird. <em>

Mycroft smiles coldly, legs crossed, robes pressed, a picture of perfect composure. _So unlike Sherlock, and yet… strangely similar… _John thinks. He smiles at the thought, remembering their hasty retreat from the dungeons two nights ago- the way Sherlock's hand had tugged urgently at his jumper, the stifled laughter as they'd parted, the adrenaline fuelled sprint up to the Gryffindor tower-

"Mr Watson." Mycroft's mouth twists around the name. "I'm _so _glad you received my owl."

John attempts a mumbled response, trying to match Mycroft's statuesque poise but suddenly very aware of the creases in his own robes, the inevitable shadows under his eyes. He has a feeling he knows what this is about.

"I must tell you, I have been reliably informed that you have recently made the, _ahem_… _acquaintance_, of my brother, Sherlock."

_Yep, there it is. _Mycroft is watching him in much the same way Sherlock had regarded his jar of flobberworms on Friday morning. It's disconcerting.

He holds the gaze, part embarrassed, part annoyed. "You must?"

Mycroft's face lights up in amusement, "If the two of you insist on causing explosions in the dead of night, then yes, I must."

"Right," John nods, not surprised that Mycroft had somehow managed to weed out that scrap of information. "Well, mission completed." He stands carefully, hauling his bag back over his shoulder, "I'll be on my way."

"_Sit back down, Mr Watson." _The slow voice exudes quiet authority, and reluctantly John does as he's told. "You see. I believe there is every possibility that you and I could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

John turns from Mycroft's cold stare, now unwilling to meet his eye. He's confused, and vividly reminded of the time Harry first dragged him into a game of wizard's chess… expecting him to be able to play, without having explained the rules. "You do?" he responds dumbly, playing safe.

"Yes, Mr Watson. _I do." _Whilst all traces of amusement have vanished, John can't help shake the impression that Mycroft is rather enjoying this. "Next weekend, my brother will, like you, be visiting Hogsmeade." He taps his fingers rhythmically against the side of the boat. "Assuming you intend to continue your association with Sherlock," he continues, "I would be happy to pay you a _generous _sum of gold, if you'd be so kind as to accompany him_." He stops tapping, lets the words sink in. "_You see… I worry about him. Constantly_."_

John barely manages to hold back a laugh. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that hadn't been it. It wasn't that he'd _mind _the trip… he'd probably, okay, definitely, quite enjoy it. He just wasn't about to sell his soul for it. Or lose Sherlock's trust… if he even had it. "Why don't you just follow him yourself?" he asks. He's getting tired of this.

Mycroft leans in, with an air of put upon benevolence, as if explaining something very obvious to a very small child. "Delighted though I would be to do so, I'm afraid on weekends I occupy a…" he smirks smugly, "_minor_ position at the Ministry of Magic, in London."

"Oh. Right…" John isn't surprised by the revelation. He trails his hand through the black water beneath them… Mycroft certainly has the sneaky air of a politician. "Well… no thanks."

A perfectly raised eyebrow, "You're _very_ loyal, _very_ quickly Mr Watson."

John stands abruptly, this time failing to hide his grin as Mycroft hurriedly grasps the sides of the suddenly rocking boat. "Um, nope. Not really, _Mr Holmes_. I'm afraid I'm just not interested."

He steps, with as much dignity as possible, given the circumstances, on to the landing platform. Relieved to be making an escape, he strides eagerly towards the open boathouse doors.

"Perhaps," a cool voice calls out from behind him. "Although… you seemed fairly _interested _on Friday evening, I hear"

John puts two and two together and makes a mental note to knock Greg Lestrade off his broom, when Gryffindor next meet Hufflepuff on the Quidditch pitch.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry for the long hiatus, and for any minor mistakes. I don't have a beta, hopefully I haven't missed too many!_

* * *

><p>The History of Magic classroom is cool and draughty. Outside the window an occasional flutter of snow swirls past. John yawns and stretches in his seat. At the front of the room Professor Binns is reading from <em>Goblin Rebellions of the 17<em>_th__ Century_ in a slow, dreary tone.

The door slams open, and a windswept Sherlock Holmes flounces dramatically into the classroom. John almost tumbles off his chair in surprise. His classmates stare in confusion. Perhaps for the first time in several centuries Professor Binns actually halts his lecture, in order to fix Sherlock with a quizzical look.

"Can I help you, young man?" he queries, sounding a little perturbed

"Probably not," Sherlock scowls. He flops into the empty chair at John's desk.

Professor Binns looks confused, "Are you supposed to be in this class?"

"Yes" Sherlock snaps. "Unfortunately"

John remembers Sherlock's words in the hospital wing and wonders why he had finally decided History of Magic was worthy of his attention.

Professor Binns hums thoughtfully. "Ah," he nods in dawning realisation, "Sherlock Holmes... of course." He peers at Sherlock disapprovingly for a long moment before returning to his low key droning on the role of Ragnuk the First. Within minutes half the class have returned to their customary sleepy stupor.

John stirs anxiously in his seat, shooting a sideways glance at Sherlock, who is reclining arms crossed in his chair, staring forwards, scowl firmly fixed in place. Under John's gaze he raises one dark eyebrow, before turning briefly to acknowledge him with a slight smile.

"I met your brother, the other day." John leans over to breathe the words into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock freezes, a look of mild horror on his face. "Lestrade must have told him." He twists in his seat slightly, hardly bothering to lower his voice. Professor Binns drones on. "What did he want? Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John isn't sure whether to feel alarmed or relieved that this sort of thing has apparently happened before. He nods cautiously.

There's a strange fire in Sherlock's eyes now, he raises one eyebrow minutely, lips twisting into a sneer. "Did you take it?"

John scowls back. "No." The question had stung a little more than it should have. He turns his attention back to the scruffy sheet of parchment on his desk, scrawling a half hearted addition to his notes. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him.

"Pity."

John looks up, surprised. Sherlock's sneer has vanished; he is reclining in his chair, twirling his quill in his long pale fingers.

"We could have split the fee."

John laughs. The tension in the air breaks. "But you would have had to put up with my company in Hogsmeade this weekend."

Sherlock sniffs, shifting slightly in his chair. "Wouldn't be the end of the world," he replies smoothly, before ducking his head to rummage in his bag.

John watches him pull out a scrap of parchment and a bottle of purple ink, letting the words sink in. "Glad to hear it," He replies, a little nervously.

Sherlock unscrews the ink bottle, dips his quill, and writes something in an elegant, flowing script.

"So you'll come, then?"

John jumps slightly at the words. "What?"

"Well, you don't have plans with anyone else. You may as well come with me. It would piss Mycroft off." Sherlock addresses the words to the desk in front of him, talking quietly now, although there's little chance of them being overheard.

"Okay."

Sherlock looks back up at him. He beams briefly, eyes lighting up. "Good." He holds the piece of parchment up for John to see.

'_Dear Lestrade,_

_Piss off or shut up._

_-SH'_

John stretches over and adds his own initials to the end of the message. He struggles to suppress a giggle as Sherlock folds the piece of parchment into a small plane and, with a tap of his wand, sends it soaring out of the open window.

* * *

><p>The day of the Hogsmeade visit is unseasonably cold. Outside in the grounds fiery autumn leaves are slowly being covered by a thin layer of snow. Thick white clouds hang in the sky above the castle.<p>

Sherlock meets John at the breakfast table, as he's finishing the last of his toast, earning mixed reactions from the other Gryffindors. Sally and Anderson glare at their plates, but Sarah attempts a nervous smile.

"Come on, John" Sherlock demands. "No time to dawdle."

John chokes on his crust as he's hauled ungraciously to his feet, and pulled stumbling down the length of the Great Hall.

In the entrance hall John pauses to brush the crumbs from his robes, swallowing his last mouthful. "Seriously, Sherlock," he begins, "I know Donovan and Anderson are blithering idiots, but Sarah and Mike are actually _nice. _You could at least try to be civil."

Sherlock looks bemused, "I thought I was being."

John has to turn down the corners of his mouth to stop himself smiling. He finds it somewhat unbelievable that Sherlock had somehow managed to traverse the past seventeen years of his life with such a distinct lack of social awareness.

"Sherlock. You barely even looked at them."

"Oh, fine. So I didn't. What does that matter? They're boring, John. Boring! And," he pauses to groan loudly, "so _vacant._ Do they ever think? Ever? Oh, it's a good thing _you _occasionally use your brain." Sherlock is practically hopping from one foot to another by now, in his eagerness to get going. "Or I think my mind would rot."

John isn't sure whether to be flattered, or offended. He settles for a sigh and a raised eyebrow. "C'mon then. We'd better get going before you start jogging on the spot" he pauses, taking in Sherlock's appearance. His white shirt is crumpled and unbuttoned at the neck, he's not wearing his robes. "…where's your coat?"

"My coat? It's in the dormitory. Why?"

John stares at him. "It's snowing, Sherlock." He sighs at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face and, turning him around, pushes him firmly towards the dungeons.

* * *

><p>The dormitory is empty except for a hefty, scowling boy John recognises from his Herbology class. He glowers at John.<p>

John pinpoints Sherlock's bed before they're even fully through the door. The green velvet covers lie twisted into a strange nest-like heap, surrounded by assorted robes, scrolls of parchment and painfully thick books. On the bed side table rests a small animal skull, an over turned ink pot, and several unidentifiable objects in jars. He doesn't dare ask. Above the table a homework assignment has been viciously attached to the wall with a knife. Sherlock's trunk lies open at the end of the bed. Lying on top, a small, shining object catches John's eye. He leans down to pick it up.

"Um, Sherlock," John clears his throat, and Sherlock casts him a cursory glance as he hunts for his scarf. "You're not a prefect."

"Well deduced, John… Aha!" He pulls the scarf from underneath his covers and ties it swiftly around his thin, pale neck.

"But you have a prefect badge."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock smiles broadly. "Yes, I do"

"Can I ask where you got it?"

Sherlock chuckles, pulling on his coat. "Lestrade. I steal it when he's annoying"

He plucks the badge from John's hands throwing it unceremoniously back into the trunk. "Let's go."


	8. Chapter 8

Greg scratches his head absentmindedly with the end of his quill. The common room is nearly empty, flurries of snow swirl outside the high windows; everyone is outside, enjoying the Hogsmeade visit. In the corner a small group of first years are laughing and playing exploding snap by the fire. Every so often a loud bang makes him jump and another ink blot mars his otherwise neat essay.

A couple of minutes later the door to the common room emits a lazy creak and Greg notices the group of first years go strangely quiet. He glances up, curious, and then does a double take, almost spilling his entire ink bottle over his half finished essay.

Standing in the doorway is an amused looking Mycroft Holmes. Not a good combination. Greg stares in mild astonishment as Mycroft picks his way across the room, knocking the occasional book out of the way with his umbrella. With a wide, thin lipped smile and a small sigh of contentment he gracefully lowers himself into the armchair opposite Greg's, eyes roaming the room.

Greg waits for an explanation. It doesn't come. "Um."

Mycroft looks back at him. "Yes, Gregory?" The first years in the corner are staring at them.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

Mycroft raises one perfect eyebrow. "Through the door, Gregory."

Greg frowns at him. "You're not allowed in here. How did you know the password?"

Mycroft gives him a pointed look that says he is allowed to be wherever he wants to be. "I have my sources."

The superior manner grates on Greg's nerves, already fragile from the Transfiguration essay he's hopelessly struggling through. "Ravenclaw common room not good enough for you?" He queries, returning his attention to his essay and trying to ignore the way Mycroft is watching him.

"No, it's severely lacking in one key aspect."

"What's that then?" Greg asks, frantically scribbling out his last couple of sentences. Mycroft seems to have a horrible ability to turn his brain to fluff.

"You were not in it."

Greg grins in spite of himself. He sets down his quill and leans back in the armchair, returning Mycroft's steady gaze. "Okay," he smirks, "you have my attention. What do you want?"

Mycroft beams. "That's the spirit, Gregory. I find myself tiring of Arithmancy. I'm planning on going book shopping in Hogsmeade." He studies the end of his umbrella. "Would you care to accompany me?"

_Well this is new, _Greg thinks. Mycroft's not usually one for conversation, or activities that don't involve their tongues in each other's mouths. In fact, he's fairly sure they've never actually spent any time together outside of empty rooms or… storecupboards. Unless they're counting the always awkward meetings in the prefects' carriage of the Hogwarts Express, during which Mycroft remains a picture of perfect composure whilst Greg finds himself drowning in lust.

"I thought you worked at the Ministry on Saturdays?"

Mycroft sighs, "I do. However… Mr Fudge," he says the name with an air of condescension "has become involved in a last minute conference in Bulgaria. My assistance is not required today."

_Second best then_, Greg thinks. He picks up his quill again. "I can't, Mycroft. This essay is killing me."

He glances up to gauge the reaction, Mycroft's nose has crinkled up in distaste. He pulls an elegant eagle feather quill from his bag, and tugs the parchment from Greg's hands. "Allow me," he says.

* * *

><p>The interior of The Three Broomsticks is hot, smoky and a welcome relief. John collapses into an overstuffed armchair, nursing a warm butterbeer in his snow chilled hands. Sherlock's very presence is, to be frank, exhausting. The boy in question sinks reluctantly onto the bench opposite, clearly already eager to be back on the move.<p>

John pushes his _Zonko's Joke Shop _bag under the table for safekeeping, and then sits back. Across the table Sherlock is poking at the sneakoscope he's purchased in Dervish and Banges. His hair is a damp, tangled mess, and his usually pale cheeks glow pink from the cold. The dark green of his scarf contrasts dramatically with the pale column of his neck.

John allows himself a few guilty moments to enjoy the view. When he looks up, Sherlock is watching him, smiling slightly. John tries not to blush.

"Who's the Slytherin boy?" he asks before he can stop himself. "the one you're always with…"

Sherlock's smile disappears and John finds himself already regretting the question.

"Jim Moriarty." Sherlock replies simply. He doesn't elaborate, his silver eyes are challenging, over the rim of his glass.

John nods, cautiously. "Is he y-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sherlock snaps. Setting his glass down a little more forcefully than necessary.

John runs a hand through his hair. The two sit in silence for a moment.

"How come Mycroft's in Ravenclaw?" John queries, partly just for a change of subject, partly because he's genuinely curious. "He's ambitious and sneaky. I'd have put him in Slytherin."

The question works- Sherlock smiles again. He looks both scornful and amused. "So would the Sorting Hat. He's in Ravenclaw because he chose to be in Ravenclaw. Didn't want Slytherin's reputation to spoil his ministerial ambitions…

"Speak of the devil." Sherlock is scowling suddenly, eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind John's left shoulder.

John swivels on his chair, turning in time to see a stately looking Mycroft Holmes holding open the door for Greg Lestrade. The two are pink in the face and covered in snow.

"Well, that's an interesting development." Sherlock murmurs. "How unlike them to meet somewhere outside of a broom cupboard."

John stares at him in astonishment. "A… broom cupboard? I don't underst- oh! No! …Really?"

* * *

><p>"Afternoon," Greg is grinning down at them, taking a large gulp of the firewhiskey that he's fairly certain he would not have been sold had anyone other than Mycroft Holmes been accompanying him.<p>

Mycroft draws his wand and over fly two chairs upon which the two older boys sit, in order to join them (uninvited) at the table.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock growls.

"Oh really, Sherlock. Can we not spend some quality time together with friends?" Mycroft raises his eyebrows, feigning hurt.

"Double date," Greg grins; the firewhiskey has made him feel a little lightheaded.

John and Mycroft both turn to stare at him in surprise. Perhaps John looks a little less dignified, mouth agape.

"We're not on a date." He manages, hurriedly.

Sherlock just sniffs contemptuously. "Really, Lestrade, your girlfriend would be horrified."

Greg looks abashed, "Joke," he mutters, "I was joking."

Mycroft seems to regain his composure, leaning back in his chair. "Sherlock, you really must learn to keep out of what doesn't concern you."

John laughs into his butterbeer at the hypocrisy, accidentally blowing froth across the table.

Sherlock points his wand at the white foam, transforming it into a small white cloud, which he sends shooting towards Greg.

Mycroft surveys them with disdain, "We weren't planning to stay, anyway. We have things to do." John notices his right hand disappear surreptitiously beneath the table. Greg chokes suddenly on his last mouthful of firewhisky. On the rough oak tabletop the sneakoscope starts spinning.

Sherlock looks disgusted. "Well, please keep your activities to yourself. You're making me feel queasy."

John nods, sagely "…and we've both spent enough time in the hospital wing this term."

* * *

><p><em>Review if you've time? I like to know what people think. <em>


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